A man pushes a tree through the snow, His skin a sick green glow— Like something chemical, something posthumous, A shadow still walking. The branches are festooned with a lie: Red ornaments, bright lights, The illusion of warmth, Dragged across a dead earth. Behind him, the fire burns low, A gasping wound in the city’s ribs. The buildings stand still— Caskets without lids. The air tastes like old ash, And the man trudges on. One foot in front of the other, Because there’s nowhere left to stop. What does he see in the needles? The last green thing, Or just another joke That no one laughed at? You watch him vanish into the cold, The cart wheels squealing like rats, And for a second— You feel warmer.